


An Ounce of Home

by Elwyne



Category: Doctor Who
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:01:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwyne/pseuds/Elwyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Writing prompt: an ounce of home.</p><p>The (duplicate) Tenth Doctor looks back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ounce of Home

No matter how many years he spent in Pete's World, winter always seemed to surprise him. It wasn't any colder or wetter than any other English winter, he supposed; the difference was that now he was stuck in it. No skipping off to sunny somewhere else on a whim. Not like it used to be, anyway.

The Doctor pushed the thought aside, as he pushed aside a rack of summer shirts and jackets and clawed his way to the very back of the closet. There, among the wool and tweed, his hand closed on some long-forgotten fabric: unexpectedly light, soft with dust and age. Curious, he grabbed the hanger and pulled it out.

It was the blue suit.

The blue suit. He hadn't worn it since that day on the beach, when the TARDIS had faded from his view forever. Since the first day Rose kissed him, since the day they had promised themselves to each other. So much time had gone by since then, so much life: a home built together, a marriage, a family, Pete and Jackie and baby Tony, and now Tony's wife with another baby on the way. He could hear Rose getting ready in the other room; he imagined her pulling on clothes over the curves he knew so well, running a brush through sweet-smelling blonde hair, touched now with silver. He didn't regret a minute of it, but still the sight of that suit made his heart ache.

He slipped the jacket from the hanger. A puff of fine dust drifted free as he pulled it on over his pyjama top. It settled comfortably across his shoulders, the fit still perfect; years fell away as he tugged at the lapels and thrust his hands deep into the spacious pockets. His fingers brushed something coarse; he closed them on a small object and drew it out into view.

It was only a stone, a rough, irregular lump just the right size to fit neatly in the center of his palm, mottled rust in color with gleaming specks scattered across its surface. Instantly he was transported: centuries vanished in a moment, and he was a young man again, a young Time Lord, throwing pebbles on the beach with his mates as the sun sank into the ocean before them.

"Doctor?" Mathis sneered. "What do you want to be that for?" The sandy-haired youth's flat stone skipped across the waves and vanished with a plunk. The Doctor grinned in admiration.

"Jolly good shot," he said, and turned to his friend with a smirk. "It's hardly more pretentious than 'Seer,' hm?"

Mathis, the Seer, scowled and turned to the third member of their party. "Your shot, Mystic."

The young woman frowned in concentration, black fringe falling in her eyes. Then with a great heave she lobbed her own missile through the air. It arced gracefully over the beach to trim the tops of three waves before sinking beneath them in the darkness.

"Good show," said the Doctor with appreciation. He jiggled a stone of his own in his hand, coarse, lumpy, an awkward shape for throwing but comfortable in his palm.

"Oi! You three!" A fourth figure struggled toward them over the grassy dune, robes flapping in the breeze. "You're late! It's about to begin!"

"Bugger," said the Seer. "Well, let's get it over with."

"Shut it," the Mystic advised. "You've been looking forward to this as much as any."

The two of them moved off to join their friend on the dune. The Doctor turned to follow them, still tossing the stone in his hand. He had reached the only goal he'd ever known, the conclusion of his time at the Academy, and his future stretched out vast and empty before him. He looked back over his shoulder at the beach. His friends' voices called to him in the distance as the last of the blazing sunset vanished beneath the horizon. Boiling red faded to black, and the evening's first stars shimmered into view above.

With a shiver of anticipation, or apprehension, he slipped the stone into the pocket of his jacket and hurried after his peers.

 

"Doctor? Are you all right?"

He looked into Rose's eyes, warm brown flecked with gold and colored with concern. Her still-damp hair fell across her shoulders in graceful waves. A single strand stuck to her chin. He brushed it free, caressing her cheek with gentle fingertips.

"Fine, love. Everything's fine." 

Her glance fell upon the jacket, and her eyes crinkled as she smiled. "The blue suit," she said softly. "It still fits."

"And look at this." He offered her the hand that held the stone. "I found it in the pocket."

She frowned, the look of curiosity and wonder he so loved to see, and turned the stone over in his palm. Its facets caught the morning light from the window, and for an instant it shone like that long-lost Gallifreyan sun. "What is it?" she asked.

He smiled, his single heart suddenly brimming with gratitude for the lives he had lived and lost. His hand closed over hers, pressing the stone between them. Rose looked up, a question in her eyes; the Doctor leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"An ounce of home."


End file.
